


Things My Father Taught Me

by Oswald_Nygmobblepot



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Adoption, Child Abuse, Dadwald, Martin Cobblepot - Freeform, Paternal Oswald Cobblepot, Survival
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-02-23 21:09:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13198617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oswald_Nygmobblepot/pseuds/Oswald_Nygmobblepot
Summary: Zsasz took Martin somewhere where he would be safe ... But is he really as safe as they think? Will Martin be able to prove that he is, indeed, a Cobblepot! Can he live up to the name?





	1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

“He will be well cared for.” This was the last thing that was said of the brief meeting. Martin stood in between the couple, who smiled kindly as Zsasz looked down at him, pat him on the head. 

“See ya round, kid.” But the truth was, he wouldn’t. He would never see Zsasz again, or his dad. Well … Oswald. He knew Oswald had every intention of adopting him, and he’d been hopeful. He’d been happy. Oswald had been the best thing that had happened to him. But Sophia had ruined that and for that he hated her. It was a hate that swelled up deep in his chest, caused his heart to ache as he watched Zsasz get back into his classic black car. 

And it was a hate that would grow non stop in the coming months. After Zsasz was well out of site, Martin was lead into a decently sized house, in the country well away from Gotham. 

He stood awkwardly in the doorway as the woman who introduced herself as Karen moved into the kitchen without a word. He could hear two children playing in another room and he felt anxiety go through him. Would he get along with them, or would they make fun of him for not being able to talk? Bully him as the other kids had. 

He took a deep breath and looked towards the room. Oswald had taught him well. He would be fine. He took a step towards the room but a strong hand on his shoulder stopped him. 

“Oh, no you don’t.” He said and Martin looked up at him with wide, wondering eyes, his curls falling into his face. “We agreed to take you in, we never agreed to let you play with our children.” He said and Martin tilted his head slightly. 

The man held out his hand. “Give it to me.” He said and Martin was even more confused. “God you’re stupid. Your pad, give it to me.” Martin looked at it a moment before he took it in his hands and pulled out the marker to write something. The marker ran straight over the paper as it was ripped from his hand and he flinched when the man yanked on the pad, the tear away cord snapping and burning the back of his neck. He shifted nervously as he looked up at him. “Come with me.” Martin watched him as he moved through the hall and glanced back at the front door. He tilted his head again with confusion seeing a large lock at the very top of the door, well out of his reach. 

“That wasn’t a request boy!” Martin jumped and looked back at the man … What was his name? Brad? He moved over to him quickly as the man opened a door on the side of the stairs. “In.” He said, pointing at it. “Right in, all the way to the back.” 

Martin looked at it, it was a nice closet as far as closets went, nicely painted, nice shelves, very neatly cleaned, with coats hanging to one side. He wanted to ask why, but had no way to communicate. “I will not ask again boy.” Martin shook his head, not wanting to go in. He had no idea what the man wanted. “Get in, or so help me I will take my belt off, and you do not want that to happen.” He said, and Martin reluctantly ducked into the closet which was slightly shorter than he was. He moved to the back as he was told. “Open that door boy.” He said. Martin looked at the back wall and it took him a moment to find a door latch. The door looked as if it were part of the wall. He pulled it open to see another small storage space. Though this space was entirely empty, and the ceiling to low for even someone of Martin’s height to stand up straight. 

“Get in.” Martin jumped at how close the man was, and turned to see him under the stairs as well. “IN!” Martin jumped again and dove into the small, white, lit room. The door was closed behind him, and Martin listened as the latch was put back in place. From the inside there was no latch, no way of opening the door. It looked like smooth wall on all four sides. 

He took a deep breath and sat down at one side of the very bare room, hugging his knees to him, and wishing he was back at the Iceberg Lounge with his dad. 

\---

Martin didn’t know how long he was in there for, but after a while he started to grow tired and knew it must be late. He slowly stood from where he was sitting, pushing himself up from the floor and looked around for the light switch. He didn’t mind the dark. At least in the dark he could imagine he was at his father … at Oswald’s home, fallen asleep on the floor by the fire, while Oswald sat in a chair reading. He looked by where the door was, and found nothing. He ran his hand along the walls, looking for a button, a switch, anything to turn the light off. But there was nothing. 

He looked around the edge of the light, on the ceiling … As far as he could find, there was no way to turn the light off. He’d even tried turning the plating over the light. It didn’t seem to even come off let alone turn off. 

Martin looked around the room, his eyes starting to water. He’d spent the last who knows how long, just trying to be brave … Oswald would send someone to check on him, wouldn’t he? Or would he not want to risk it? 

He went and sat down in the corner of the room again, pulling his sweater vest off. He laid down, facing the wall and placed the sweater over his head. Light still shone through slightly, but at least it wasn’t as bright. If he closed his eyes … He could sleep. 

\---

Martin jumped awake at a loud, repetitive banging and he looked around, confused and blurry eyed, trying to adjust to the light before he remembered where he was. The sound was footsteps hurrying down the stairs just above the outside of the room he was in. Brad and Karen’s children were up. He went to the door and paused. Even if he banged on the door, there was no guarantee they would help him. He wondered if they even knew he was there. It wasn’t as if he could scream for help. And this place was so remote that even if he could, no one outside of this house would hear him. 

He sighed again as he went to sit on the floor. He listened as the family chatted in the kitchen, ate breakfast and his stomach grumbled loudly. He hadn’t eaten since lunch yesterday, and he didn’t blame father … Oswald … For that. So much had happened, and he’d assumed he’d be taken care of here … He couldn’t know what these people were doing. Father cared for him after all! 

Martin shook his head … He couldn’t call him that. His name was Oswald, and he was not his father. But after they’d bonded for months … He couldn’t help it. He felt like Oswald was his father, and in his mind he’d been calling him as such for a while now. This place didn’t change that. Oswald had done just what any father would do, or should do in their situation … His father was trying to protect him. 

He wiped the tears from his eyes as he heard the children talking by the front door, heard the front door open and close, and the house was silent. He took a deep shaky breath as he turned in his corner, leaning against the wall, his arms wrapped around himself before he grabbed his sweater vest and pulled it on. 

A few moments later he looked over as the latch on the door clicked, and it opened. “Breakfast time kid.” He said and Martin scrambled out of the door at the mention of food. They were actually feeding him! 

He was grabbed as he got outside of the closet into the hallway. “Easy kid … You gotta work for your food.” He said, dragging him into the kitchen. He tossed him into a chair at the kitchen table and Martin looked up at him, not fearful but definitely nervous. 

Brad dropped a plate in front of him and he looked down at the mess of food. It looked as if Brad had taken the leftover food from his kids plates, put it onto one, and expected him to eat that. “Eat kid, you got a lot of work to do.” He walking over to the counter. Martin wanted to argue, but did not have his pad to do so … And even if he did he doubted Brad would read it. Still … He was very hungry. He picked up the fork and started eating the cold scrambled eggs that were bathed in too much ketchup, and the half eaten toast. 

While he ate, he took in the room, observing everything he could. He had to find a way to get a message to dad. Find some way to get a letter to him, to tell him what they were doing. He looked over at Brad, wondering how he could communicate. 

He pointed to himself, before rubbing his thumb over his fingers repeatedly and pointing at Brad. “You want to say something, fucking say it.” Brad said and Martin shook his head. He couldn’t! “You ain’t deaf, you can hear perfectly well, form words and say them!” He said and Martin shook his head again. Brad picked up Martin’s half finished plate, which Martin actually tried to reach out and stop, he was still hungry, but Brad slapped his hands away making Martin jump back in his chair. 

He breathed heavily as Brad dumped out the plate into the garbage. “This is the list of what you’re going to do today …” He said pulling a piece of paper off the fridge. “You’re going to complete these before the children get home from school, and if you do … I’ll think about giving you supper tonight.” He said handing him the paper. There was so much on here to do! 

Wash the dishes   
Sweep and Mop the floors   
Dust the shelves   
Clean the children’s rooms   
Do the laundry   
Wash the windows   
Wipe down stove and counter top   
Wipe bathroom sinks and mirrors   
Make beds   
Vacuum   
Put garbage out back  
Weed the front and back garden (You will be supervised)

The list went on. There was no way he would be able to finish all of this before the kids got back. Still … If he wanted to eat, he would have to do so. 

He started with the dishes, going through the list in order. At least this way he could look around the house, get his bearings, and with any luck, devise a plan to either get himself out … Or get a note out to his father.


	2. Chapter 2

Three months. Three long months and not a single word from anyone. No one to check up on him. Not Zsasz, not his father … No one. Martin rested his head back against the bright wall, the light only having turned off once the entire time he’d been here, a grateful one night reprieve before the bulb was changed. 

Just by listening he started noticing patterns, knew where everyone would be at what time of the day, on what day of the week. Today the kids stomped down the stairs at a whopping 9:00 AM, which meant it was Saturday. 7:30 AM on weekdays for school, 8:00 AM on Sunday’s for Church. He hated Sundays the most. He would have to wait until nearly noon before the family got home, had to wait until nearly one when the children went upstairs for their piano lessons, and nearly until 1:30 PM before he could eat for the first time that day. He hated those days. Having to wait so long to eat, or to even use the bathroom. 

But today was Saturday, which meant around 9:30 the children would go for a play date, Karen would go to her Stitch ‘n Bitch session, which left him home alone with Brad … Which wasn’t great for him, but at least he’d get to eat, and for the most part was left alone with his chores. 

Sure thing, 9:30 on the dot (Martin had become very good at counting and calculating time on his own, counting down the seconds), the door clicked open and he was led out of the closet. He glanced up at Brad who seemed more angry than usual. 

He didn’t question it as he moved to go to the kitchen which was always as expected, but a firm hand painfully gripping his shoulder stopped him. He was pushed back towards the cupboard again and Martin looked up at him with wide eyes. 

“Don’t you dare look at me like that! You pathetic little freak. You think you’re too good to talk to us huh?” He asked and Martin shook his head, his curls bouncing around his face, now long enough that he constantly had to brush them out of his face. “Then say something you little fuck.” 

Martin looked fearful, say something? He couldn’t! His vocal cords wouldn’t allow it after the damage they’d sustained … Such a long time ago that Martin didn’t even remember. He knew it had been his mother, knew it happened when he was a baby, she was sick of him crying. Colic, they’d said. He was lucky someone had been there to stop her, she’d nearly killed him, so small he was, but the damage had been done, and he’d never talk. 

“I said talk you little fuck!” Brad screamed and Martin backed away again, sliding against the wall of the stairs. He flinched as Brad grabbed onto the baggy black tshirt he was wearing, stumbled over his own feet as he was dragged up the stairs into a room he’d never seen before. A bedroom, well made, finely cleaned. It was the only room in the house he was not permitted to clean. 

“Get on the bed,” Brad said and Martin looked at him with wide fearful eyes. “Face down, take my shirt off.” Martin was breathing heavily as he stared up at him, his eyes tearing up. “NOW!” Martin jumped as the belt was pulled all the way out of the man’s pants, and Martin pulled off his shirt, his baggy cargo pants hanging off his thin hips. He’d lost weight, he knew … But there was nothing to be done about that. 

He shivered as he got onto the bed. “I’ll give you one more chance boy. Say something. Beg me not to do it.” He said and Martin looked at him, silently pleading. “Open your mouth boy!” He said angrily. “I don’t care what trauma you been through in the past, you need to man up and get over it! Fucking speak, I won’t say it again.” 

Unable to do anything, Martin looked back down at the bedspread, wincing as the belt came down hard on his back. He hissed, but no other noise came out as tears filled his eyes. He closed his eyes as the belt came down again and again, his entire body tensing and he knew his back was raw and bleeding, his hands fisted in the duvet, shaking as he silently cried. He didn’t know how long it would been, for once being unable to count the seconds, he’d lost track of time and it made him feel disoriented among the pain. 

“You’re stubborn. I will break you!” He said tossing his belt into the laundry basket to be cleaned. “You will speak. Get your shirt back on, and clean up this mess. Then you’ll get to your chores.” He said, walking out and leaving Martin laying there. 

Martin was shaking as he stared at the flower print of the cover. He wanted his father. He wanted to come home! He wept quietly for a few moments before he pushed himself up, hissing at the pain in his back. How was he expected to do his chores when he could barely move. 

He got up, forcing himself put his shirt back on, hissing again as the rough material brushed against the welts and cuts. It felt weirdly numb in a way, but like a painful numb. It was hard to explain. He slowly bent and picked up the belt, taking it to the bathroom to clean the blood off of it, and he ignored just how much red was going down the drain. It was hard to tell just by looking at the black leather, but watching it go down the drain was another matter entirely. 

Once it was clean he curled it up, and placed it on top of their dresser in their room, making sure there was no blood anywhere else. He closed the door, and closed his eyes, resting his forehead against the door. He couldn’t do this … He couldn’t stay here. They’d kill him before he even reached his next birthday. 

He had to get word to father, but he’d managed to send seven letters in the past 3 months, begging him for help and not a single response, no help sent. 

Maybe father had forgotten about him, no longer cared. But no, Martin didn’t believe that. If his father hadn’t cared, he wouldn’t have faked his death as he’d done. He wouldn’t have risked so much to save him, would have let Sophia kill him … But no … He’d risked saving him. He remembered laying the burning car, completely safe, hearing bullets fly, knew his father was out there, could hear him screaming about a war. 

A war! A war had started! Maybe father wasn’t even … Martin pushed himself away from the door with new resolve. No. His father was alive! He was fine! There had to be a reason no one came to help! And Martin couldn’t help but sense that something was wrong.


	3. Chapter 3

A few days later, Martin stared at the blood on his hand, hissing at the small flap of skin where he’d cut himself. He ran it under the tap, the knife he’d cut himself on in the draining sink. “Boy, you better be done there!” Brad said, and Martin jumped, his hand on his cut. He nodded and showed him his hand as Brad searched him for anything he might try to smuggle into his cupboard. He’d been caught once, with a brownie in his pocket. That hadn’t ended well. Once Brad was done he saw the blood and shook his head. He moved to one of the kitchen drawers, barely seeing Martin move before he’d turned around and practically slapped the bandaid onto him.

“Get into your cupboard boy!” Martin nodded and rushed into his cupboard. His back felt painful still, but it mostly just felt weird when he moved. He was still moving better than he was yesterday, and the longer he waited, the higher chance he had at getting caught. He’d been lucky Brad hadn’t come into the room he was in. But it would only be a matter of time.

He moved to the side as he watched the door close, one mistake and it would be game over. Behind the door, he slipped the knife he’d taken from the sink into the door, the door closing, but the blade holding the deadlatch flat against the door. He heard the latch on the other side close and he paused, hearing the outside door close. He hoped it wasn’t locked, if it was, this entire plan was down the drain. He pulled his hand away from the knife, grateful that it stayed where it was, jammed between the door and the frame. He sat there quietly listening as Brad went up the stairs, and within a few minutes everything was silent.

He waited quietly, moving to the other side of the room, grabbing the metal nail file he’d taken that morning, finding an opportunity to toss it under the stairs during his chores in a place he knew would be easy to grab on his way in.

He waited nearly an hour, long enough for everyone to fall asleep, or so he hoped. He slipped the nail file in between the door and the frame, the metal sliding easily out to the other side. He fiddled with it up and down before he found the latch, a little metal hook on the other side. He lifted slowly until he heard the latch gingle free against the door and the door came open, the knife falling to the floor with a clatter. He paused, his heart pounding in his chest as he listened, waiting for Brad to come storming down the stairs, but within a few minutes Martin let go of the breath he hadn’t noticed he’d been holding. No one was coming. No one heard it.

He pushed the door open slowly, the hinges creaking just slightly and he was under the stairs, the knife and the nail file left on the floor. He’d have to do this quick, before he lost his advantage.

The stair door was open, luckily, and it moved on silent hinges. He closed it behind him, feeling more free than ever, and vowed that one way or another he would never end up back in there again. He’d either be free … Or he’d be dead. Either way, he felt it would be freedom of some sort.

He moved through the dark house, knowing it well enough by now that he had very little trouble moving around. He went into the kitchen, slowly pulling open one of the drawers. He pulled out the sharpest knife, having left it on top so that it wouldn’t make too much noise.

He held the knife in his hand as he made his way through the dark house, glancing up at the lock on the front door, well out of his reach. He’d worry about that later. He made his way up the stairs as quietly as possible, pausing when he saw the bathroom light on. He crouched down low, listening, but no sound came. Not even the rustling of clothing. He moved cautiously forward, seeing one of the kids’ doors open, glancing into the bathroom and seeing it empty, he put two and two together. One of the kids went to the bathroom, left the light on, and came back to bed without closing their door. Or, they were scared of the dark, but with the wealth this family had, he doubted they couldn’t afford a night light. He closed the bedroom door silently, before sneaking over to the bathroom.

“Trevor, go to sleep!” He froze when he heard Brad’s tired voice, he barely sounded awake. Likely Trevor, the youngest boy, around his own age, was frequent to the bathroom at night. Martin was grateful that Brad and Karen left their door open, it made things much simpler.

He padded into the room, his feet barely making any noise on the carpet. Remember what father taught you, up through the ribs, into the heart. Up through the ribs, into the heart. It repeated in his head as he stared down at Brad, his hand shaking slightly. It was one thing doing it in theory, but to do it in real life? To kill someone?

He took a deep breath and without thinking of it further, his hand went over Brad’s mouth, the knife plunging into him, the blade hitting a rib and jutting downward. He panicked slightly as Brad’s hands came up to his arm, the bed shaking slightly as Martin struggled, the knife in his hand twisting upwards and a wheezing gasp came out of Brad’s mouth. He punctured a lung, that was for sure. But if Brad didn’t stop moving, he was going to wake up Karen. He did something wrong, he didn’t hit the heart. Brad wasn’t dying, in fact he was struggling. Martin pulled the knife out, Brad gasping as it was ripped out of him, and the knife plunged in again, this time not hitting bone, going up under the ribs just as father instructed, but he wasn’t sure he hit the heart. He moved his hand around, the knife moving around inside of him, Brad’s eyes staring up at him wildly, almost pleading, until nearly a minute later he stilled.

He paused, the knife still in his hand, embedded in Brad’s chest as Karen rolled over in bed. This wasn't over. This didn’t end with Brad. He pulled the knife out, feeling hot sticky blood all over his hand. Karen was facing away from him, practically laying on her stomach. He wouldn’t be able to do what he’d been taught. What other way would he be able to kill her without her waking the children in the process. Then it came to him.

His mother wanted him to stop screaming … So she stopped him. Martin got off the bed as Karen mumbled for Brad to come back to bed. He moved around the bed quietly, and quick as he could, he plunged the knife into the side of her neck. She barely moved, her eyes flying open in shock as she gurgled. He had to say, while it was satisfying to see them pay for what they’d done to him. It left him slightly unfulfilled … He felt like their deaths were … Lackluster. For a lack of a better word.

He pulled the knife out of her neck, watching her as she struggled, and it sent an odd thrill through him despite the fear he felt. He paused when he heard a quiet gasp and looked up to see the daughter standing in the doorway, what was her name? It didn’t matter, she was out the bedroom door screaming at the top of her lungs as Martin chased after her. He stopped in the hall, grabbing a chair from by the bedroom, and jammed it under Trevor’s door knob. This could have gone better, his father would be disappointed.

With the door secure he ran down the stairs after the girl to see her at the front door, jumping up and down for the lock she would never reach. Seeing him coming down the stairs she ran again, this time for the kitchen, but it was no use.

Martin caught her quickly enough, grabbing her by the hair and pulling her back. He dragged her back into the hallway, the girl kicking and screaming the entire time, scratching at his hands. He paused before the closet and he threw her into the wall, her head hitting it, dazing her. He pulled her forward again, hitting her hand with the butt of the knife as she grasped for the wall, screaming. She cried out in pain as he shoved her into the room he’d so frequently been locked into and shut the latch. He heard her banging on the door as he moved some boxes, concealing the latch, and kicking the knife and nail file out of the way.

He wondered how long it would be before she was found, if she would be at all. He closed the staircase door and stared up at the top. Both kids knew he’d been in there, had seen him on a few occasions as he’d cleaned. They’d just made fun of him, called him Harry Potter, the boy under the stairs, neither helping him, neither of them doing anything … He’d tried once, using a piece of paper to beg them to let him out, and they’d laughed. So now she can be trapped in there, alone, scared, just as he had.

He closed the door to the stairs, her screams no longer audible and he wondered if Brad had specifically made that room for that reason. Even in the closet he could barely hear her, and he was listening for it. He knew she was there.

It made him wonder just how many kids before him had been in there, had died in there … How Zsasz thought he’d be safe here. Then again, perhaps Zsasz knew he wouldn’t be. That filled him with anger. That Zsasz knew this was happening, and still sent him here, without his father’s knowledge of course, his father would never be so cruel to him! Wait until he found out.

He stomped up the stairs as loud as he could, making sure that the girl below knew full well that he was going after her brother. As soon as he was upstairs, he pulled the chair out. ‘No witnesses’ his father had once said. ‘Not unless it’s someone fiercely loyal to you. Not a friend. Friends will stab you in the back. But a conspirator.’

He opened the door to find Trevor cowering in the corner. “Please … Please, I didn’t do anything!” He said, shivering, and Martin wincing, seeing the wet spot on the boys pants. He couldn’t just leave him. He’d tell. He’d know it was him. He’d wind up in juvy and what good was that?

He stepped forward, the boy barely even resisting as the knife sank into him. The boys death with the quickest, if he had to estimate. Barely a few seconds and he slumped to the floor lifeless. Martin looked at the knife in his hand. It was Saturday. He’d need to plan. He couldn’t just escape, he knew. He knew when they were found there would be a full blown investigation. And they likely wouldn’t be found until Wednesday. With any luck, Wednesday of next week when their aunt came. What a shock she’d get.

Well, he’d just have to find some way to cover this up. It’s what father would do!

He went into the bathroom, cleaning off the knife handle, resting it on the sink counter as he thoroughly washed his hands, getting under his fingernails. He took off his bloodied tshirt, and went downstairs to the main floor, starting up the fire place. It only took a moment before it was up, and Martin threw his shirt and pants into the fire. He didn’t bother changing into any other clothes, what would be the point to dirty them again.

He moved swiftly through the home, a pair of rubber gloves on his hands, removing his fingerprints from everything he’d touched. He went upstairs and grabbed the bloody knife, cleaning up the blood from the bathroom, and went back into the bedroom. He couldn’t believe he’d done it, and if he could pull it off without getting caught … He could imagine how proud his father would be.

He grinned as he tossed the knife onto the bed beside Brad, went and grabbed a pair of the girl’s shoes. He put them on before going back to the bedroom. They were a bit big, but they would do well enough. He dripped blood from the knife onto the floor, stepping on the droplets in places, smudging it into the carpet as he walked. He lead it into Trevor’s room, stepping a bit into the puddle of blood before going back into the hallway, and running down the stairs. He stopped in front of the stairway door, and opened it, stepping out of the shoes and placing the knife down on a shelf. This was almost too easy.

He ran back upstairs, careful not to step into any blood, and with fresh gloves he pulled open her school binder. If there was one thing Martin was good at, it was writing, drawing … And her writing looked generic and boring. It was so close to his, all he would have to do was add a few girly swirlies, and a few hearts and no one would be the wiser.

He sat on her bed, a piece of paper torn from her binder, taking his time in replicating her writing.

“I killed them, and I hate myself for it. I was angry, so angry. I wanted to kill myself, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I’m inside, so I won’t hurt anyone else! Maybe I’ll gain the courage.” He glanced at the front pages of the binder to see the name Sherry. Right, Sherry was her name.

He signed it Sherry, just printed like the rest and took the paper downstairs. He took a few speckles of water and dropped it onto the page to look like tears, used the gloves to smear a bit of blood on it. He took a deep breath as he put the paper down on the shelf. He listened quietly at the door, wondering where she was. He used his foot to move the boxes out of the way. He could hear her quietly sobbing. Likely on the other side of the room.

Quick as he could he unlatched the door, threw in the shoes and the knife and slammed it shut just as she connected with the door, once again screaming at him. He shook his head, once again careful not to step in any blood, and he paused …

The note didn’t make any sense … If she locked herself in, how did she put the latch into place. The boxes would have to stay where they were, she wouldn’t be able to do that herself.

He stood there thinking, his heart thudding in his chest. He left the latch off and went and tugged on the door. It didn’t move, and given the thud, he doubted she had the time to think to put the knife in the door. He’d have to leave it like that. It was well enough locked as it was.

He shook his head, sloppy planning. He’d have to do better. Maybe father wouldn’t be as proud of him as he thought. What if he was disappointed. Either way, the shoes and knife where in there already, there was no way to pin it on someone else at this point. And given the three of them, she was the most likely to be blamed.

It would have to do. He took of the second pair of gloves, leaving them inside out and placing them on the entryway table with the other pair. He ran upstairs again, still careful of the blood, careful not to touch anything as he grabbed another pair of gloves from the bathroom.

He went into Trevor’s room, ignoring the body in the corner as he looked through Trevor’s clothing. He pulled on a pair of black dress pants and a white dress shirt. He found a green tie hanging in the closet and hung it around his neck, he’d do it up when he was away from the house. He pulled on a dark grey sweater vest, and a black dress jacket.

He smiled as he looked at his reflection. He felt more like himself, when he was with Oswald. He grabbed the kids’ dress shoes, having so many he doubted anyone would notice. They were a bit tight on him, but they’d do.

He finished changing and went downstairs. He grabbed a small step stool from the kitchen storage closet, and used it at the front door to pull the lock open. A few minutes and he’d be free. He put the ladder back and paused again. How would he get that closed again?

Martin looked around, thinking. It would be conspicuous that the lock was left open. But … If the lock wasn’t there … It was definitely an unusual place to keep a lock.

He ran back into the kitchen, grabbed a screwdriver, and quick as he could, removed the lock all together.

He put it, and the gloves into his jacket pocket to dispose of later. There was only one thing left to do.

He ran back upstairs, grabbed the notepad that Brad had taken from him and was back at the front door. He did an internal check on everything that he’d done, stopped to make sure he’d removed all traces that he’d been there. The only thing he could find out of place, was the cloth in the small white room that he’d used to remove his fingerprints before breakfast this morning. But he doubted anyone would think anything of it. It could have been kicked in there by accident from under the stairs.

He nodded, finding everything in place, or as in place as it could be, the fire already dying out, the clothing no longer existant, up in smoke, before he walked out the front door, feeling the night breeze on his face for the first time in months.

He felt no remorse for what he’d done as he bounded down the stairs, running down the cement steps out to the road. None whatsoever … He’d do it again if it meant he could gain his freedom. If it meant he could now go find his father.

 

((A/N - Should I continue? Let me know what you think.))


	4. Chapter 4

Martin was starting to learn a new brand of pain, one he’d never thought he’d feel before, despite the fact that pain was something he’d become familiar with a long time ago. Before Falcone’s Home and School for Orphans, he’d been tossed around various foster homes … None of them had felt like a home to him. Though they all paled in comparison to Brad and his family. 

Still, now that he’d been walking for … Hours … Light was already pouring over the horizon. He was exhausted, his feet ached so much that he’d long since taken off the dress shoes and walked barefoot on the cool highway road. He could keep going, he had to … Another few hours. He kept telling himself, another few hours and he’d be back in Gotham. Though that wasn’t likely. He knew the truth. He’d keep walking through the day, right through to night fall if he could. Then he’d take a much needed sleep, and then tomorrow … Maybe tomorrow he’d reach Gotham. 

He glanced up, hearing the first car he’d heard all night, looking back behind him a moment before looking forward. They were going the wrong way. They wouldn’t stop, even if he was a kid. He kept walking as the car drove by. The longer he walked, the more frequently cars drove by. Two stopped, asking if he wanted a lift. He’d shook his head no … They couldn’t have been more sketchy, the smell of pot and who knew what else was in there … No, he couldn’t take the risk, not after what happened. 

He kept walking, taking few breaks well until the afternoon. He stopped paying attention to the cars, taking one step in front of the other. He didn’t look up at the green car that passed him until it slowed to a stop nearly ten feet in front of him. He paused, looking at it a moment before he kept walking, ignoring the car as it rolled down the window. 

“Hey kid.” He paused, hearing a woman’s voice from the car. He looked over and saw a little blond girl looking at him through the open window. She looked relatively young, possibly late in High School, or early in College. “You okay kid?” 

Martin nodded, and kept walking, though she inched the car forward to keep up with him. “You need a ride?” She asked and Martin shook his head. “Where are your parents?” He paused and looked at her before shaking his head and walking away. “Hey kid, if you don’t want a ride, at least talk to me.” She said making Martin freeze. ‘I said talk you little fuck’ 

But no, this lady didn’t know him, didn’t know he was mute. She couldn’t be like that. He looked at her as she stared at him expectantly as Martin chewed on his bottom lip before he stepped towards the car, his pad in his hands. He wrote something quickly before turning it so she could see it. 

“How far to Gotham?” She read, looking up at him. “Can’t talk huh? No shame in that, no shame at all. My neice is mute, well, def so she never learned, she can make noises though, oh I tell you. You know sign language?” She asked, signing the words at the same time, and Martin shook his head. No, he was an orphan, no one bothered to teach orphans anything that wasn’t a necessity, and a language when he’d already had a form of communication wasn’t a necessity. “No huh?” She asked and he held up his pad again for her to see. “Right, you’re in a hurry then.” She said with a chuckle. “Gotham is about 50 or so kilometers that way.” She said pointing in the direction he’d been walking. “You have to turn right on highway 48, follow the loop, and down onto highway 32.” She said as he was jotting it down on another page. “You sure you don’t want a lift kid? It’s a far walk?” She said. 

Martin paused in writing and looked up at her before going back to the first page, ripping it off, and writing again. “How far?” 

“Well, at the speed you seemed to be going, you’d probably walk 1 killometer every 15 minutes … Given 50 or so killometers, I’d say it would take you somewhere around 12 and a half hours, maybe longer depending on how many times you break. How long have you been walking kid?” She asked, sounding honestly concerned. 

“Fourteen hours, I think.” He wrote and her eyes widened. 

“Fourteen hours, with no shoes? Your feet must be killing you.” She said. “Look kid, I don’t feel comfortable leaving you out here, there’s any number of creeps who could just grab you, cute little kid that you are. I’ll tell you what.” She said pulling out her cell phone. “Get in, I’ll give you a ride. If you ever at all feel uncomfortable, I’ll let you out again, and I’ll even let you hold my cell phone. It’s not locked so if you feel safer, you have a way to call the police. Even if you can’t talk they’ll be able to track the phone. I’m not going to do anything but give you a ride, keep that in mind. I just want you to feel safer. I know I’m a stranger, but you shouldn’t be out here alone.” She said. Martin looked around. Twelve and a half hours, at least to walk … It was better than what he thought, but his feet hurt so bad, the road was getting hot, and his back ached something fierce. 

He wrote on his pad again and held it up to her. “Are you from Gotham?” 

“Yes, born and raised.” She said, wondering if he was worried she’d get lost. 

“Then the precautions won’t be necessary. My father is Oswald Cobblepot … I’m sure that’s enough of a deterrent to harm me.” He said showing her the sign. At first her eyes widened before she calmed, a smile coming to her face. 

“Sure … You’re Penguin’s kid, right.” She said, clearly not believing him. “Come on then, Penguin Jr. In ya get, we’ll get you back to Gotham.” She said as he pulled the door open and got in.


	5. Chapter 5

Martin was writing something on his notepad as she drove and when he was done he held it out to show her. She glanced at it quickly before putting her eyes back on the road. “My name? Harleen.” She said with a soft smile. “Yours?”

“Martin. (Mart-een)” He wrote on the pad and showed her.

“Martin huh? Martin and Harleen. We sound like a couple of crime fighters huh?” She said making him smile. “Or perhaps a single mom with a kid on some crappy sitcom.” She said making his smile broaden. “So are you really Penguin’s kid?” She asked and he nodded frantically. “I didn’t know he had a kid.” She glanced at him and she could see the gears running inside of his head before he put his pen back to paper.

“He’s not really … He was going to adopt me.” He wrote, showing her the pad again.

“Adopt you?” She asked. “Hmm, didn’t seem like the fatherly type.” She said earning a dirty look from Martin. “Hey, no judgement.” She said holding her hands up for a moment before placing them back on the steering wheel. “So how come he didn’t? And how did you end up way out here?”

Once again Martin got a very thoughtful look, as if pondering just how much he should tell her. In a way, she saw a bit of Penguin in him, and she wondered just how long he’d been under Oswald’s influence. Not that she’d known him long, she’d only met him once, very briefly, when she’d gone to the Iceberg Lounge for a drink.

She waited for him to finish writing as she turned right on highway 48. “Someone threatened me. And I wasn’t safe there so he sent me away.”

“And you ran away from there to go back to him huh?” She asked.

“It’s not like that.” He scribbled frantically.

“Hey, I’m still not judging. Sometimes you gotta be with who you wanna be with. Though Pengy wouldn’t be my first choice of parent.” She said glancing at him. “You could always come stay with me if you want.” She said only half joking as he shook his head. “No? Alright, Pengy it is.” She said and they drove again in silence. It wasn’t long before they were back in Gotham City and Martin felt a wave of relief come over him. He was home … Or, will be soon.

“What address do you want me to take you to?” She asked and he shrugged before writing down,

“Do you know where the Iceberg Lounge is?” She smiled slightly and nodded.

“Yeah, I know where it is kid.” She said. “I’ll take you in though hey, make sure you’re safe before I take off.”

“He won’t give you a reward for bringing me there.” Martin wrote and Harleen looked slightly offended.

“Is it so hard to believe that I just want to make sure you’re okay!” She said, ruffling his hair. “You’re an innocent little baby, I have to make sure there’s someone to take care of you. What kind of irresponsible adult would I be just to let a child roam free in Gotham.”

“I’m not a baby.” Martin wrote before thinking again and writing. “And I’m not innocent.”

“Sure you aren’t. What’s the worst you’ve done? Jay walked on the way home from school?” She asked with a chuckle and Martin wrote nothing in response, just stared out the window as they drove into downtown Gotham. “Hey, Kid, I’m just joking. Geez, why so serious?” She asked, smirking as she pinched his cheek earning her another dirty look. “Okay, okay.” She said, shaking her head slightly. “I get it. Yeesh.” Definitely Penguin’s kid. Or just extremely moody and delusional. Either way, she’d find out.

As they pulled up in front of the building, Harleen slowing the car, she frowned as she looked over the building. The front before had a light blue neon umbrella light in it, now it was gone. Sure, it might have broken and been removed but … Something was off. Martin’s hand was about to grab the handle of the car when her hand grabbed his arm and he looked at her with wide eyes.

“Wait.” She said, her eyes still on the building. Martin glancing at it as well before someone walked out of the front door and Martin’s eyes widened in fear as he ducked down behind the car door. It was the blond lady, the one that was working with Sophia! The ones who had kidnapped him. He waved his hand frantically for her to drive. To go! Harleen sensed his fear, but knew that they’d already seen her eyeing up the building. She rolled down the passenger window.

“Hey, excuse me!” She said to the blond lady as two other women came out, Martin as looking up at her fearfully, practically balled up under the dashboard as he shook his head and mouthed ‘no!’. “Excuse me!” She said again and the youngest of the three looked at her, the other two pausing. “Sorry, can you help me for a moment, I’m really lost.” She said with an embarrassed laugh. “I’m looking for 426 Bristol Ave. I thought it would be around here but …”

“This is 426 Calder Ave.” The young girl said. “Bristol is seven blocks that way.” She said pointing down the street.

“Calder? Oh, I thought I was on Bristol. I got turned around. All these one ways, you know?” She said, with her best dumb blond laugh. “Thank you so much.” She said before pulling out onto the road. Once they were out of sight Martin moved back into his seat, breathing a sigh.

“Why are they there?” He wrote. “Where’s my dad?”

“I don’t know kid. And I’m not really sure what to do with you now either.” She said, running her finger over her lip.

“Just let me out.” He wrote and she shook her head.

“No can do kid. I’m going to find you somewhere- Hey!” She said as he opened the door when they’d stopped at a red light. “Martin! Come on, we can find some way to find your Penguin.” Martin hesitated as he wrote on his pad.

“Thank you for driving me. I’ll be fine.” He wrote before running off down the street.


End file.
